What Have You Done?
by Rebellwithoutacause
Summary: Sherlock can't take the train wreck that is his mind anymore. Old habits die hard, and Sherlock begins to wonder if this time will be the last time. He wonders if this time the cocaine will be too much for his system to take. He's calculated his odds, but for once, the world's only consulting detective missed a variable, and his name is John Watson...
1. Chapter 1

_**Alright, I'm here, taking the plunge into a completely different fandom than I've been in for a long time. I've done the best I can to keep the characters all in canon, but I've taken some liberties obviously in the 'behind the scenes' between episodes of the show. This probably takes place between Study in Pink and The Blind Banker. Now bare in mind, I have NOT seen Season 3, so the different developments that the characters might have made in those episodes aren't included in this story. This story will have three parts. Reviews are mana from heaven, let me know how I'm doing on the characters! I hope you all enjoy!**_

_**Warnings: A few swear words, heavy drug use. If that upsets you, turn back.**_

_**Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Sherlock. I wish I did. **_

* * *

He can practically feel the way his brain is shredding itself to pieces inside his skull. He hasn't had a proper case in weeks, maybe a month now, he's not keeping track. Despite the fact he's not been working he's refused to eat unless absolutely necessary and he's not that ashamed to say he's become something of a menace towards anybody who agitates him even slightly. Which isn't difficult considering a wrong look is all it takes to aggravate him these days.

Mrs. Hudson's gone to stay with her sister for the weekend, and John, finally pushed the boiling point, left hours ago, storming out of the flat and slamming the door as hard as he can, which is hard enough to come just shy of cracking it in it's frame. Sherlock's been alone since, and whilst normally he barely notices if he's alone or has company, tonight the silence screams at him with a voice he can't ignore.

He can't shut it off. There's too much, and yet absolutely nothing, to distract him. As he paces frantically around the flat, he tries to find something, anything, to give his mind something to gnaw on, but there's nothing. Everything's too easy. John's laptop, the book Mrs. Hudson left on their kitchen table, even the scrapped remains of one of his experiments sprawled on the counter, all of it unreels through his brain and he shreds it for all it's information before deleting it.

He's near to shouting by the time midnight rolls around. He can't take it anymore. John stole the gun and took it with him and Sherlock knows just by the determined look on his face John's gone to find himself a girl to shag and stay over with just so he doesn't have to face his flat mate. He won't be coming home until at the very least tomorrow morning, if that. Judging by what he was wearing when he left he could get away with going to work in his clothes that he had on his person, no need to stop by the flat for a change. That simple deduction offering him no challenge, he slams his open palm into the wall, causing the little shelves and knick knacks to rattle even as the window pane shakes and his palm begins to smart.

His heart is already pounding when he gets the idea. He wishes he hadn't thought of it, but something about the way the little flurries of snow take off from the window ledge at the force of his blow make him think of an escape he hasn't had in so long. His blood begins to heat and course faster through his veins as his mouth runs dry. Already his brain is dueling with itself, one half encouraging him and the other trying to help him resist. Sherlock cracks the window open and undoes the top two buttons on his shirt, hoping that if he can cool off the craving will pass. He knows where his cigarettes are, he hadn't bothered to tell John he managed to find them, but he knows that even the sweet singe of nicotine won't stop the train wreck careening through his skull. He just can't handle it anymore.

He yanks out his phone and stares at the device as though it's personally offended him, his fingers shaking above the screen. His mind, ever logical and pragmatic, races on ahead without his consent.

_Text John. He'll distract you. _

_No he won't. He's gone to find a girl, he'll have turned his phone off, the odds that he'll answer are less than 3.37%. _

The very small thought that he could text his brother enters his mind but he dismisses it before it can take hold. No. He will not go to his self-righteous, pretentious, borderline evil older brother for help. Not with this. Mycroft's never shown anything but contempt towards him when it comes to this, what's to say he'll be any different this time.

_Poor little brother, he doesn't have any work to keep him busy and his flat-mate is so disgusted with him that he's gone to crash on a strange woman's couch rather than stare him in the face. Yeah, that will blow over with sympathy and a gentle head-pat Sherlock. Get real. _

Bitterness coats his tongue like bile and he flicks through his contacts, the one he's searching for coming up quickly. He's surprised, but his fingers don't shake as he clicks over the screen.

**1 g. Usual place. Now. – SH**

**OMW- D**

Before he leaves Sherlock takes a few precautions that are still habitual when he used to do this regularly. He changes out of his expensive slacks into a pair of jeans, leaves behind his long coat and scarf and picks up a black blazer and shrugs into it, snatching his keys and his phone and stuffing them into his pocket before heading out the door. He's halfway to the Metro station before he thinks about whether he locked the door to the flat or not. He doesn't care enough to turn around. It's not like there's anything there that can't be replaced.

He's barely paying enough attention to notice which train he takes but his instinct knows it's the right one when his heart begins to crawl out of his chest and into his throat to pound even harder. Christ, John was right, all those months ago when they worked their first case together and Lestrade had raided his flat.

_This guy, a junkie, are you out of your mind? _

_John you might want to shut up right now. _

_Yeah John, didn't take me for a slavering drug addict did you? Were the nicotine patches and gratified sigh of relief not a big enough clue, or do you actually need track marks? _

Anger bubbles through him and he makes sure he holds onto the pole on the train with all five fingers, the spidery appendages biting in hard as he fights to control himself, control the need to pace, to shout, to some how exercise the demons that he can't understand but are relentlessly hounding him nonetheless. He feels the way they're ripping him apart, kicking and clawing and sinking their teeth deep into him, blocking out the logic, the rational part of his brain. That part's still alive though, and it's screaming as loud as it can.

_Text John. He might answer. _

He all but tells his brain to piss off as his stop approaches. The train is hissing to a stop when he feels his phone begin to vibrate frantically in his pocket. He's surprised to see his brother's ID on the screen. Surprised, but his mind remains unchanged. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and steps off the train.

_Too little, too late. _

He spots his dealer without trouble. He only knows the man because he worked to know him. To anybody else he's a nameless, faceless shape in a seething crowd. Together they head for the stairs, falling in step with the herd of other people heading for the exit. Sherlock only knows that the man has slipped his hand in his pocket because they've practiced this art for a long time. His dealer's fingers deposit a glass vial and remove a rolled bundle of cash before slipping away, no one ever the wiser except for the two of them. They don't make eye contact, they don't speak, and as soon as they reach the top of the stairs, they part ways.

In his other pocket Sherlock's saved just enough cash for a cab back to Baker's Street. As soon as he's up the stairs he realizes he did in fact forget to lock the flat but he's distracted from this notion when his phone begins to ring frantically yet again.

"Shove off, Mycroft," Sherlock growls as he locks the door behind him and takes the stairs two at a time into the flat he and John share.

_Share whenever he's not too busy being pissed at you because you're a right maniac. _

Sherlock's not under any delusion that he's all but impossible to live with. He's tried to tell himself for as long as he's been alive that he doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is the work. Everything else is transport.

_Liar. _

He sits on the couch and clears off the coffee table and pulls out the vial. He tips it end over end in his fingers, examining the soft, snowy white powder inside. His blood quickens in his veins yet again and he eagerly uncaps the bottle and uses the credit card in his wallet to cut several lines. He can feel the way his body already begins to respond to just the sight of the cocaine cut and ready for him, the way his palms sweat and his heart hammers hard behind his breast bone with eagerness.

He finds an old receipt on the floor and quickly rolls it into a little straw. His phone is sitting beside him on the couch and briefly he glances at it one more time.

_You could just try. _

_He won't answer. _

His brain begins to try and tear itself to pieces yet again and this time Sherlock's damned determined to make it stop. He bends his head and snorts an entire line into his nose.

The effect is immediate. His pupils blow wide and even the low light in the flat hurts if he looks too closely. Heat begins to pump through him, flushing his skin despite the cracked window. He shrugs out of the blazer and throws it to the side as he sinks back into the couch and sighs with pleasure as electric sensations spark across his skin and sink into his muscles. He grins a little as everything seems to melt away. He's not sure why cocaine has such a soothing affect on him, he knows that for almost everyone else it sends them into an energetic tailspin, where he himself had been previously. He's tried different downers for the same effect, but all they do is make him feel muddled and chained, as though he's trapped in tar and struggling to get out. They never bring him the peace that cocaine does.

He knows that it's temporary and he doesn't care. He feels his phone ring again and glances down and notices that it's Mycroft, again, but he doesn't answer. He could, just to let his brother hear the laxness in his syllables and the slow, molasses like texture of his speech but he doesn't. Mycroft would just as likely cart him off to rehab if he did, and even the spiteful delight Sherlock would feel knowing he'd upset him wouldn't be worth that humiliation.

"How's it feel, Mycroft, to know that your dear little brother is just another junkie?" he asked in a singsong voice. "Bet you fifty quid you don't care if I die from this. Just if it makes you look bad."

He closes his eyes as he leans back into the couch. He tries to hold onto that bittersweet vision of infuriating Mycroft with his antics but it doesn't last long because his brain just won't stop conjuring up images of John. John concerned about him at various times for different reasons. When he won't eat, when he doesn't sleep, when he won't talk for days and only answers questions with a hum or the mournful sound of his violin. When he tears himself to pieces over a case that he hasn't cracked yet but is so close to spreading wide open that it's killing him not to see the whole picture.

_John cares, Sherlock. You know he does. _

_John's a moron. Why should he care? I've done nothing but drive him crazy. If he's smart he wouldn't care. _

_ You just said he's a moron. See, even you're losing touch. You know he cares you idiot. _

"Oh just stop it!" he yells. His hands fly to his head and he yanks at his hair as if literally trying to rip the train wreck of his stream of conscious thinking out of his skull so he can throw it out the window where it will get run over by a bus and he never has to deal with it again. He realizes he's on his feet and spins on his heels, dropping down to his knees, grabbing his homemade straw. This, this is the only thing that makes it stop. Work just gives it a direction, but it never really ends. The work is like opening a door to a tunnel, giving the canon fire of his brain somewhere to go so it doesn't pound around on the inside of his skull. The blow actually douses the fuse so the canon can't shoot.

He snorts a second line from his knees. It hits him immediately, like a hammer to the chest, heat exploding through his body like lava carving its way down every artery. He gasps for air as he feels sweat begin to coat his skin and he ungracefully worms his way out of his shirt and throws it to the side, sinking into the couch again, trying to hold still even as his heart pounds frantically in his chest. He's almost gasping at the feeling racing through him, intense pleasure mixed with terror that makes him feel like he's on the verge of literally going insane and never coming back. He gets up on his feet and laughs wildly as though he's giddy but he knows that he's just trying to stave off the panic. He knows he's done too much, he knows it's been too long, his body's not used to such a high dose anymore, he can't really remember the last time he's touched food, and sleep was all but a lost cause. He's not in a fit state physically to handle this kind of stimulant and he knows it. Mentally he tries to calculate the odds of him overdosing but stops halfway through when his phone rings yet again. This time the anger that floods him is too much for him to contend with and he picks up the offending device and throws it across the room where it smashes into the wall near the fireplace.

He gets up and paces frantically, rushing around the room, rearranging every bit of furniture or object that he can find, trying his best to work through the overwhelming energy that is all of a sudden slamming hammers on every nerve end he possesses. Every sensation feels magnified. Every scrape of the wood on his fingers, every crisp piece of paper, every flutter of a cold breeze from the window against his skin, every footstep jarring into his bones. The wind from the street does absolutely nothing to cool his overheated skin and as the minutes tick away into hours and still the effects haven't worn away he begins to feel his skin crawl, as though something is trapped underneath and is trying to dig it's way out.

Sherlock sinks down onto his knees on the floor and wraps his arms around himself, doubled over and quivering madly as his nails begin to bite into his shoulder blades. He tries to hang on to rationality and logic but the cocaine has done its work and has managed to block it out. The disturbing feeling of something digging under his skin continues until he's so frantic with it that he tears his nails into his flesh, desperate to get the offending creature inside him out. He gasps with panic and pain as blood begins to slick his pale skin, mixing with the sweat that is still pouring off him. Claw marks appear across his back, arms, chest, abdomen, and even his neck and throat as he frantically digs at himself.

"Make it stop!"

He howls with misery as he lurches to his feet again, throwing his arms out to catch himself on the side of his desk. With a ferocious cry he sweeps his arm out and knocks everything on the desk to the floor, his laptop clattering sharply, books and papers flying wildly as his chest heaves and his head begins to spin. Nausea rolls up into his stomach and claws its way up his throat and he leans against the desk, desperate to try and calm down but absolutely nothing can make the storm cease.

_Ride it out, Sherlock. You've done it before. _

_It won't ever stop! It will always be like this. You will always be like this Sherlock. You'll always be borderline on insane. You'll never have friends. You'll never have anybody that you fully trust, never anybody you can be close to, never anyone who will see you vulnerable. You will always be like this. You'll always be the addict who's just barely hiding the slavering jaws, snapping and gnashing and crunching, desperate for the next fix until it finally kills you. _

_ Just do it now, Sherlock. There's enough there. Just a little more. Just do it. Make it end. Why do you want to live like this anymore? What does it even matter? _

He screeched again as he staggered towards the couch, gripping the sides of his head with his long fingers, ripping at his scalp, trying to just for once make it end. Make it end, he had to make it end, he couldn't live like this anymore. It was never going to change. He had to do something. He had to spare the rest of the world and the only people he might have said he cared about from having to watch him spiral outwards until they found him in the gutter somewhere, dead for days and nobody's noticed because he's just another junkie. That's all he is, and it's all he's ever been, and he knows it. He's always known it, and so far he's tried hard to deny it, but he just can't do it anymore.

He crawls forward on his hands and knees until he reaches the table. He picks up the receipt with shaking fingers and puts his head down, determined to snort these last two lines all at once and just die here in this flat and end the chaos that he's created. If the others never forgive him, he can't say he feels bad, because it's their stupidity that makes them care about someone who will never be anything but a manic drug addict who can't cope with reality. They really ought to know better.


	2. Chapter 2

The third line is halfway up his nose when the door is smashed open by a very strong kick. He staggers back in surprise and slips to the floor as he hears a loud voice bang through the flat.

"Sherlock!"

Almost instantaneously there are arms on his shoulders and around his abdomen, trying to lift him upright but he's all but dead weight. Trying unsuccessfully to coordinate his limbs, Sherlock flails and falls to his side, his limbs twitching weakly as the control on his stomach finally breaks. He retches hard, bile and acid coating over his throat and mouth, barely bubbling past his lips.

"Sherlock, Jesus Christ, what have you done?"

Sherlock hears the voice of the only man he would willingly call his friend, though that thought unnerves him in ways he doesn't yet understand. Right now though he can barely make out the voice, it's all a blur above his head as he lies still on the floor, his chest heaving for air as the heat continues to try and suffocate him.

"Sherlock, get up! Get up or you'll choke!"

_John…_ his hazy mind thinks. The train wreck is gone now. Everything feels slow and almost still, certainly the fear and the pain were finally gone. Sherlock wonders if he's dying and thinks that if he is, it isn't so bad. His voice slurs terribly as he tries to convey this idea to John.

"You're not dying you miserable idiot, you're overdosing which is close enough for anybody's liking. Hands and knees, now!" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's midsection and hips again to force him off his side, but the pressing motion on his internal organs caused Sherlock to heave again, his spine bowing upward hard, throat tightening up as he coughed and almost choked.

"There, you're alright," John soothed, his hand sliding up Sherlock's naked, trembling spine and onto the nape of his neck. The fact he could not only feel, but also clearly see, every vertebra, disturbed John more than he was comfortable with at the present moment. He slid deeper into that part of himself that had been trained for combat, where he only needed to focus on what to do, not how it made him feel. "It'll pass." There's blood and sweat coating his palm from the clearly self-inflicted wounds carved all over Sherlock's skin. He forces the fear and the pain for his friend away. All of that will be sorted later, right now he just has to help him through this.

Sherlock felt his head bowing forward between his arms as crippling dizziness washed over him, making the floor feel as though he were on the deck of a ship pitching wildly in a hurricane. His stomach convulsed again and as he retched John's fingers suddenly tightened into his hair and yanked his head out from between his arms.

"Head up. Sherlock Holmes is bloody well not going to die choking on his own vomit in his flat like so many other celebrity wannabes."

"John….I…." Sherlock tried to speak but John shushed him firmly, the grip on his hair loosening and returning to the nape of his neck.

"You can speak later. Just breathe," John advised. Very dimly Sherlock recognized this as John's doctor-mode and knew enough about the man to know that when he was in such a state he wasn't one to be trifled with.

"I…hurt." He was trying to say more but he just couldn't find the strength or the willpower to do so. It was true what he had said though; his entire being hurt. From his bones, to his muscles, to the cuts and lacerations all over his upper body, to the pounding in his head, and the raw, scraping feeling in his throat. He hurt all over and now he really just wanted to lie still and never move again.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do, inhaling almost a gram of cocaine up your nose will do that to you," John huffed. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. I think you can walk. Or at least stay upright while I carry you."

Sherlock tried to struggle but he was weaker than a newborn kitten and could do little more than barely mumble a protest as John lifted him up and bore most of his weight across his shoulders as he half dragged half carried him into the bathroom. He retched again as he and John almost stumbled into the shower together but there was nothing in him to come up.

"Easy, it's alright," John murmured. He propped Sherlock against the wall and started undoing his belt, noting that he was in jeans and not slacks and wondered what the occasion was for.

"John, what are you doing…" Sherlock managed. The cocaine still had a thick fog over his mind, but even in his state, he knew his flat-mate shouldn't be undressing him.

"Helping you. Get into the shower, run the water as cold as you can stand, you're practically on fire." John finally managed to pull Sherlock's belt away whereupon the man's spidery fingers reached to try and clutch his arms, missed their mark, and fell on his shoulders.

"I can do this, I don't need your help," Sherlock managed, biting the words between his teeth, anger roiling up now as an immediate defense against the humiliating shame that was trying to make its way to the surface.

John arched his brows at him with a look that clearly said he was full of shit. "It's fine, Sherlock," John said with as much patience as he could muster. The man was clearly still higher than the moon and all the little stars too, and for the time being, John wouldn't hold his actions against him. "I'm a doctor, remember?"

Sherlock didn't have enough strength in him to fight John's motions as he stripped the rest of his clothes and nudged him into the shower. The detective didn't have the energy to stand so he sank into a low crouch in the shower and leaned against the wall, the cold tile freezing against his skin, but when John turned on the water he yelped and tried to scramble back. It would have been humorous to see the normally brooding detective so animated, if John didn't know the reason for it. He raised the temperature of the water to the colder side of lukewarm and then shut the door.

"Stay in there, I'll be back for you," John told him. He left the bathroom and hurried into the kitchen to start cleaning up the mess in the living room. He'd just finished taking out the trash to dispel the scent of bile when his mobile rang.

"Is he alright?" was Mycroft's greeting.

John leaned against the door of the flat for a moment, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. "No. What I mean is he messed himself up badly, but he'll be ok. Mycroft, why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

He could practically feel the man's contempt reach through the phone to try and throttle him. "I did. You didn't listen. I warned you that Sherlock is dangerous and has bad habits."

"You could have told me he was a cocaine junkie! Did you really expect Sherlock to tell me that? For Christ's sake, Mycroft, if you hadn't yanked me out of bed he'd of died tonight. I found him just in time."

"Sometimes I think you're a better friend than he deserves, John. It's not your fault Sherlock and I keep our secrets," Mycroft said softly, most of the sneer gone, a lingering sort of sadness replacing it.

"Ever wonder if that sort of thinking is why he does drugs in the first place?" John growled. He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the couch before going into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He also pulled the toaster out from the cupboard and carefully inspected the contents. With Sherlock, you never knew what might be lurking inside the appliances.

While the kettle was warming through and the toast was crisping John returned to the living room and saw that the lines of blow Sherlock hadn't managed to consume were still cut up on the coffee table, the little vial in which they had previously been packed resting on the floor. On a whim John tipped the powder back into the vial and screwed on the lid and put it in his pocket before washing his hands and finishing the tea. He poured considerably more sugar in it than Sherlock would usually have but John wasn't certain he'd even notice. As soon as the toast popped up he rescued it from the machine and took the plates and the tea to the coffee table.

He came back into the bathroom to find Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, hunkered down against the back of the shower, the water streaming over his thin, naked body, plastering his hair against his head. His arms were wrapped around himself as he used the wall to support himself, breathing harshly through his mouth and nose even as the water streamed over his face.

"Feeling any better?" John asked gently.

"What do you think?" was the half hearted growl.

"I'd say so. You're starting to turn into a dick again," John huffed. He opened the shower door and turned the water off but Sherlock didn't move. The doctor fetched a towel and draped it over Sherlock's body and encouraged him to stand.

"Come on, you can walk, you're alright. I've got tea and toast for you that you'll eat because if you don't, I'm carting you off to the hospital, lights and sirens and all, because I'll bloody well not have you die of hypoglycemia."

That seemed to spurn Sherlock into moving. He lurched a little but managed to get himself on his feet but had to lean on the wall to hold himself up. As he helped him to stay upright John felt for a pulse on his wrist and noted that it was still far too elevated for his liking, but it was less than what it had been before. The man's pupils were still wider than necessary but he seemed calmer than before, not slurring through stunted apologies or refusals of help. He moved with the affect of someone being walked to the gallows.

John helped Sherlock into a pair of loose sweats and then guided him into the living room, placing him on the couch while he went into his bedroom and retrieved his first aid kit that had rapidly been expanded ever since he'd moved into 221B. He brought it back with him and took a seat beside Sherlock who had yet to approach the food sitting in front of him.

"Come on, Sherlock. You have to eat," John muttered as he took out his hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and pain reliever that was mixed with anti-bacterial cream. He set to work on cleaning the dozens of scratches across Sherlock's body, dabbing as gently as he could, noting the way the man hissed and squirmed at the sensation.

"Please, John, I can't," Sherlock mumbled, leaning forward to give the man better access to his back, but also to try and quell the nausea that just rose up in him again.

"Remember what I told you. If you don't get something down, I'm going to call the ambulance, and I'll make sure everyone knows why they were here at…four in the morning." John stared into Sherlock's still very hazy eyes, hoping to convey his seriousness. Sherlock, struggling through the fog, seemed to understand, and reached for the tea.

"Good God, why didn't you just dissolve sugar in water." Sherlock's face twisted as he swallowed a mouthful but John huffed at him with indignation.

"I could do that if you like. Now stop complaining. And hold still! You managed to cut yourself right on your spine."

By the time John had finished tending the cuts all over Sherlock's torso he'd managed to choke down the toast and the tea. He was gingerly leaning back against the couch, his hand drifting up to shade his eyes from the still too bright light from the nearby lamp. His head felt a little clearer but he still felt overheated and any motion made gravity pitch wildly underneath him. He couldn't lie flat on his back, his stomach wouldn't take it, so he just remained still as a statue sitting up.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked quietly when John finally settled into his chair which he tugged across the room to be seated closer to the couch.

"Know what?" John asked with an exasperated sigh. He might as well just stay up and call in sick when the normal office line at the hospital was open. There was no way he'd ever be able to function after no sleep and worrying constantly about Sherlock.

"That I relapsed," Sherlock managed to grit out.

"That would imply you ever quit," John replied, turning his head to face Sherlock. "Did you ever quit?"

"Yes. I was clean when I met you." He exhaled slowly as a dull but all encompassing ache began to hammer his skull.

"So what changed? Why tonight? What happened tonight that made you go tearing off and practically trying to kill yourself on cocaine?" Anger edged John's words, but he'd be a liar if that anger wasn't from a source of sadness and hurt.

Sherlock didn't answer. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back and settled into slow, steady breathing, hoping that if he could nod off he would be able to get through the worst of this by the time the sun rose. John didn't seem to mind the silence either but he kept a very close watch on Sherlock the entire night, not daring to sit still long enough to fall asleep, just in case.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock woke he couldn't tell what time of day it was because John had closed all the curtains, keeping the living room a dark cave. The window had also been shut and he could feel the soft touch of a blanket over his body. The doctor must have been tending him in the night. His head was still woozy and felt thick, but physically he felt better, except for a heaviness in his limbs he was sure was the result of fatigue and the crash from the stimulant.

He tried to sit up and found that moving made the world spin underneath him, but he went through with the motion anyway. John noticed almost immediately and when Sherlock managed to pick his head up, he was surprised to see him smiling.

"Morning. Well, afternoon rather. Are you hungry?"

"John, am I ever hungry?" Sherlock grated. He wanted to rub the sleep out of his eyes but he didn't dare put that much pressure on his skull.

"No, but I thought I'd ask. And you're going to eat regardless. You need it. Don't fight me," John warned when he could see Sherlock about to protest. He set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him along with a glass of water and a cup of tea.

"It's your normal cup, just so you know," John informed him as Sherlock cautiously approached the tea like there might be a snake inside the cup that was going to try and bite him. Sherlock nibbled at the food John had set in front of him until finally he managed to get down the toast and half the eggs and John figured that was enough to start with.

"Why, Sherlock?" John asked after he'd cleared away the dishes and sat back down diagonal from the couch. He withdrew the vial of cocaine from his pocket and set it in front of Sherlock who watched him with incredulous eyes.

"Why what, John?" the detective asked. His voice was much softer than it had been since the two had met and John began to entertain the possibility Sherlock was experiencing guilt for the first time.

"Why did you try to kill yourself on a gram's worth of cocaine?" The question came out sharper than John had meant to, but if Sherlock noticed he didn't let it phase him.

"I didn't try to kill myself," Sherlock argued. "I just…I had to make it stop."

"Make what stop?"

Sherlock heaved a very aggravated sigh as though he were sick of explaining this, like he just wanted John to magically catch on and follow his roller coaster stream of conscious thinking. "I can't even begin to comprehend how I could make you understand what it's like to live inside my head. This isn't narcissistic antics or petty attempts for attention or sympathy, I've never needed such nonsense in my life. My mind, John, is like train that is going much too fast for the tracks to hold out forever and if I don't have something to turn it off, it derails." Sherlock picked his head up and watched the doctor closely.

"So the work…that rights it, then?" John asked tentatively.

"Yes. It's a distraction, it gives my brain something to do. My mind never quits, John. Maybe I'm defective, maybe there's something inherently wrong with me, but I can't shut it off on my own. There always has to be something external." He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair as he fought through fatigue, irritation, and intense shame.

"And the cocaine?"

"It stops it, temporarily. Obviously it never lasts for that long and the consequences can be severe but it's the only sort of chemical I've found that shuts it up. I don't understand it, I've never cared to know the reason. It's just enough that while I'm using my brain slows down and I feel like I'm human." He exhaled slowly and leaned down against his knees, still feeling the world reeling beneath him, but now on the other side of the worse of his tangle with the cocaine he wonders if the unsettled feeling is more to do with John's unrelenting stare.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad? Is this why you've been so…hard to live with lately? Because you've been craving?" The words softened enough to cause Sherlock to look up. Something in his still addled brain told him that it was not disbelief that he saw in John's face, but rather concern. It shocked him like ice water doused over his skin.

"Because it has nothing to do with you," Sherlock growled. "This was my problem long before I met you. And it'll be my problem long after you wise up and realize you can't live like this and clear off." He could feel himself shaking, his fingers biting into his arms as he tried and failed to shove all the emotions he was normally so good at repressing back into the cage he'd built for them years ago; but the bars were worn and thin and the lock was rusty, and every syllable out of John's mouth was chiseling away at the creaking metal. It distressed him enormously but he was finally at a loss for what to do and he didn't have the strength in him to fight to hold the doors shut anymore.

"Not my problem? Sherlock, I saved your life! I barely knew you and I killed a man to stop you from killing yourself…do you really not understand…?" John's voice was practically stuttering with disbelief.

"Understand what, John, speak plainly, because no, I don't understand!" He was practically shouting by the end of his sentence, and though his voice sounded crazed he refused to look at John. He didn't want John to see the unraveling of the oh so carefully constructed façade that he'd spent years perfecting. It was too much to take.

"Sherlock, look at me," John urged, his tone becoming much softer again. Sherlock didn't know why but that gentleness hurt. It hurt as bad as scratching himself to pieces last night. It hurt because it was the key to the lock, gleaming bright as a diamond in full sun, and Sherlock knew that he couldn't stop it.

_Be angry with me. Please, just do it. Just say you can't take it anymore. Go away, please. Don't do this, I can't handle it._

_You know better, Sherlock. This is why you trust him. This is why he's the only one that matters. Because he's the only one whose stood by you. No matter what you've put him through._

_No stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, please, just don't do this. I don't know what to do, it'll just ruin everything. I'm not human, I can't act the way he can, I can't…_

"Sherlock. Look at me."

The firmness of John's voice makes him look up. He doesn't want to, but Sherlock has never been a coward, so he stares John in the face, knowing that he owes him that much.

"It doesn't matter what you've done. I'm not going anywhere, alright? Mycroft couldn't bribe me, Sally couldn't scare me, and an insane cab driver couldn't stop me." He paused for a bit, a strange sort of grin slipping onto his face. "For the world's only consulting detective you sure can be thick." He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say, hoping to not scare Sherlock off anymore, but still wanting to reach him at the same time. "It doesn't matter have you've done. That first case we worked together proved to me that you're not like anybody else I've ever met before. You could have killed yourself just to prove you're clever, and not to some psycho serial killer, but to yourself. You've always got something to prove. I can live with that, Sherlock. Sometimes I think you can't though. Sometimes I think you drive people away because you're sick of having to prove your clever. Because when you're alone, what do you really do? You don't work, you sulk and brood and then when your brain can't tear itself to pieces anymore you do something destructive. I don't even think it's a distraction anymore, Sherlock. I think why you really do drugs and hurt people carelessly is so the bar of expectations is lower. They can only expect so much from a junkie, right? So it's not as hard to prove you're brilliant. Because the only thing you're really afraid of is people thinking you're a moron. Because you know you've got shit people skills but being so damn clever somehow makes up for that. Makes you useful. Keeps people around, whether they want to be or not, so you can prove to them what you're really just trying to prove to yourself. But if you lose that, you have nothing. I'd bet a decent wager that something happened when you were a kid, and I'd bet an ever higher wager it had something to do with Mycroft. I bet Mycroft humiliated you carelessly, and I'll bet it wasn't just once, but over and over again. And so now you do everything you can to spite him and prove how much cleverer you are than he is. You both are idiots by the way, but what I'm trying to tell you is that you don't have to do that with me." He took a deep breath in and slowly let it out before he continued. "You don't have to play those games with me. You don't have to prove anything to me."

Sherlock could feel his brow furrowing and the inner tightness in his chest loosening. It felt strange, as though gravity had lost its hold on him. He had no idea what to do next, or where to go from here.

"John…I do believe I've rubbed off on you." Sherlock's voice was soft as he continued to meet John's gaze which was open and surprisingly relaxed, given the conversation they were having. A coy smile toyed with the doctor's mouth before he answered.

"Or maybe I know people more than you think I do."

Sherlock shook his head. "You know me more than I thought you did." He exhaled a shaking breath and felt his hands wringing as his gaze was slowly being drawn to the vial of cocaine on the table. "I am what I am John. I don't know if I will ever change, or ever be anything different."

John shrugged loosely. "I know. I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, despite what you keep trying to tell yourself. I know what I've gotten myself into. I do it for a reason. Maybe I'm not exactly healthy either. Maybe we do this thing together because it's how we stay sane. I help you, you help me."

"How do I help you?" Sherlock asked very softly.

John shrugged his shoulders a bit before staring him right in the eye. "You're not the only one who get's bored, Sherlock." He grinned again, just a bit, mostly in his eyes. "You're not as special as you might think." He got up from his chair and took the vial of cocaine off the table and noted the way that Sherlock watched him closely but didn't protest. It was as much of a surrender as the detective would ever give.

"No matter what you've done, Sherlock, you're not alone. Not anymore."

Sherlock watched him go, a veritable beehive of activity swarming in his skull. He didn't know where to begin to process it, all he knew was things had changed.

_This can't last. It'll never last. Nothing's ever new. Nothing is ever truly different._

_But maybe it is, Sherlock. Maybe that's why he's the only one who ever mattered._

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…_

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**_And with that folks, this story is complete. Thank you for everyone who reviewed, followed, and faved. You guys are bloody fantastic. I plan to do more Sherlock fics in the future, I hope I see you there! _**


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